


No One Loses But You

by AugustApollo



Category: Years & Years (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Friendship, Hurt, I just like writing angst okay, M/M, Platonic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustApollo/pseuds/AugustApollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the sun loses to rain some days. </p><p>It's Olly's demons to deal with, and the best Emre can do is sit in the damn tub to let him know he isn't crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Loses But You

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be the final chapter of Be Your Army, but I decided against it because it doesnt fit in the overall picture that is painted of them in that story. It's a little dark, but this was a story that just wouldn't go away until I wrote it out of my system. I hope you enjoy!

Sometimes, it wasn't the nay-sayers or the drunk people or the douchebag flings or the hurtful ex-boyfriends that wounded Olly the deepest.

It was the demons in his own heart. The acid in his veins. The voices in his head that told him no no no.

It was this darkness lurking behind his bright eyes, threatening to snuff out the sparkles there. It was a futile fight that Emre feels like no one can win. But the stubborn jackass that he is, he tries anyway. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he doesn't. But he figures that if he takes enough of these battle victories, they might just come out of the war alive.  


Emre walks into the hotel tired and smelly, feeling a lot less than spectacular no matter how euphoric his blood is singing. He doesn't register much because of his hazy exhaustion. It was like a dozen hands were pulling him under the waves, but his head bobs up into the air for a few seconds to gain awareness and prevent any harm. He hears the shower running and decides that Olly is in there. He'll wake him up when he's done. So Emre plops down on the bed face first and bids a temporary adieu to the night.

He's pulled awake after what feels like just mere seconds. The duvet is damp and cold with his saliva. His glasses are askew, but thankfully, not broken from when he fell face first on the mattress. He is fully clothed. The water is still running. Without any intention of moving from his awkward position, he reaches into his back pocket for his phone, and tilts his head to the side to read the time. An hour has passed. A whole hour has passed and the water is still running. It's going without any signs of stopping.

Emre is on his feet so fast, too fast, like he's teleported up. He bounds to the door in heavy stomps and raps on it.

"Olly!" His voice is frantic. No response. He tries a different approach.

"Olly?" He says softly this time, like he knows he's listening behind the door. God knows what state he'll be in. "I'm coming in, okay?" He waits a beat for a reply, but to hell if he gets a rejection. The knob gives way under his whitened fist.

The room is hot and steam attacks his face. It's white and smoky everywhere, but it's just hot water. Emre flails his arms around in an effort to get some of the steam out of the way while carefully stepping towards where he knows the tub is. When the room clears enough for him to see, Emre's blood goes cold and his heart breaks. Olly sits shaking in the tub filled with water, his arms around his drawn knees, his head bent forward so he can't see. With his body bare, Emre sees the bones where Olly's neck and spine meet, little bumps that threaten to break the skin. He is pale and shivering and _fuck what does he do._

Before he can fully understand what's happening, his body moves too fast for his mind to catch up. Emre removes his shirt and puts it on top of the sink. It's followed by his jeans. The sound of the belt rattling against the ceramic bowl makes Olly look up. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet, and somehow, Emre doesn't think it's from the soapy water. He looks at Emre with wide confused eyes, but neither of them say anything. Emre walks over, breaking his gaze, and enters the tub in his boxers. Some of the water splashes out, but that's the most sound either of them hear for a while. Emre copies Olly, pulling his knees up to his chest and holding his chin to the tops of them.

"We're gonna sit here a while, okay?" He doesn't get a reply. Neither of them say anything for a while.

If there's anything Emre knows after so many years, it's this: Olly's mind is a race track. There are dozens of thoughts and feelings running at the same time, each one fighting for dominance, fighting for which one gets to finish first. He thinks too much, and feels too deeply, and in the end, no one loses but him.

But as much as he wants to, this isn't a fight Emre can take away for himself. It's Olly's to deal with, to win or lose on his own. The best that he can do is share in the pain, to tend to the broken bones and fractured soul. The best he can do is sit in the damn tub and let him know that he isn't crazy.

"I want to get out now."  
It takes a while, but Emre finally gets the bathroom to stop flooding.  There are towels all over the floor; not the best solution, but he has better things to attend to. He's in fresh clothes (but that didn't really count as a bath), and when he exits the bathroom, he's glad to find that Olly wriggled himself into the clothes Emre put out for him. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, right at the corner, looking out the window. He still looks preoccupied, but his eyes are less cloudy now. He's fiddling with his fingers. Emre looks down at his own, the pads of each finger shrivelled up from the over exposure to water. With a sigh, he decides to go for the gentle approach.  
He squats in front of Olly, putting himself in his line of sight and bracing his hands of Olly's knees.

"Olls?" Olly's eyes slowly drag from the window to his face and he gives Emre a small lazy smile, but his eyes give him away. Or rather, they try to give nothing away, which is just the same number of warning signs. Emre sees the fractures there, the bloody mess left by his internal war.

"We had a good show, huh? You were pretty awesome." Emre keeps his tone light, but they both know what he's trying to say. _You're wonderful. You're worthy. You're loved._

Olly graces him with another shy smile, but it isn't enough. The demons in him have started turning the wheels in his head. Tonight, Olly is losing the battle to himself. So what can Emre do when he can't help in the fight? He pulls him in for a respite.

Reaching up, Emre placing his hands on either side of Olly's face, his thumbs just under his cheekbones. There's a flash of confusion in Olly's eyes, follows by recognition. It breaks the thread of sorrow, if only for a second. Emre intends on making it the longest second in history.

With gentle hands, Emre pulls Olly to him and kisses him, gently at first. It is the opening line of a prayer, the first notes of a song. He feels the distance between them, feels Olly's absence in his head, but Emre perseveres. Olly's mouth is warm and familiar, and Emre maps it over and over until he senses him returning. It's like knocking on a door and waiting in a dark hallway. Emre waits and waits in patient silence until Olly comes to meet him. It's slow at first, barely the whispers of footsteps. Then slowly but all at once, the door is thrown open and Olly is there.

Emre is pulled upward and they are both standing now, mouths frantic but in sync. Olly's hands are in his hair, on his shoulder, on his back, but Emre is content with gripping him steady at the waist.

"I've got you. I've got you." Emre breathes between sloppy kisses, slightly concerned that his lips will tear open if Olly doesn't calm down. True enough, Olly's mouth goes still for a moment before abandoning Emre's lips for his neck. Emre guides them to a more comfortable position on the bed, and by the time either of them come up for air, they're nothing but bare skin and labored breaths.

Emre presses a prayer against Olly's throat, peppering his shoulders and chest with adorations and praises. His hands trace Psalms and symphonies over Olly's arms, across his back, and inside his thighs. Emre has never been sure about religion, but this is his form of worship. There is nothing holier than this.

Olly is restless beneath his fingers and thrusts forward to meet him, needing more, demanding more. He groans against Emre's mouth. When it comes to the two of them, what Olly wants, Olly gets.

Emre is careful, but that isnt what Olly wants. He grips Emre by the shoulders to set the pace, and Emre let's him take the lead. Olly clamps his legs around Emre's waist and sets them in motion. With every labored breath and every thrust, Emre proves his devotion. Olly is tightly wound around him, his face hidden under his jaw, his lips latched to his neck, and his nails digging into his skin. Emre gently tugs his silvery hair to get him to look up, and he sees it. Recovery. Forgiveness. Sanity. Relief.

Euphoria.

Their voices have turned into a mess of chanted names and incoherent sighs. A warmth pools in his belly, but he doesn't give in until Olly does. Because this isn't about him, not about him at all. Olly catches his eyes briefly before he comes, hard and fast. He's shaking in Emre's arms, biting down on Emre's lower lip to keep from wailing. The bolt of lightning electrifies Emre's limbs and skin, and he comes too, clamping down on Olly's collarbone to muffle his moans. He feels Olly's fingers soothing the thin hair just over his neck, but the white sparks behind his eyes make it hard to be sure.

This is the best that Emre can do for him. Pull him away from the war in his mind, lick his wounds, tie up the fractures. Clothe him in an armor of his unyielding adoration.

Once the current settles and the fire dies out, Emre pulls out and rolls over. Olly closes his eyes and covers his face with one arm. For a long time, the only sound is their heavy breaths and pounding chests. Emre shuts his eyes too, waiting for his blood to calm. They clean up in companionable silence, just teetering on the edge of laughter. More than once, Emre catches Olly moments from an actual giggle, and it makes them both smile, but both bite back their humor. He already looks better, Emre decides. When they lie back down, Emre tosses a light arm over Olly's waist, more than ready to slip into oblivion for the next few hours. Olly traced his arm with dancing fingers, gently tugging on a few fine hairs every so often. Then the air became heavy when Olly's hand stopped.

"Don't." Emre says, giving Olly's hip bone a firm momentary squeeze. "Not tonight."

The last thing he remembers before going under is a soft lips on his shoulder.  
It's incredibly bright when Emre wakes up, and he swears the room wasn't this white the previous day. The sheets beside him are warm, but empty. He lifts his head and moans from the weight of his stiff neck, but manages a half-sitting position. Emre sees a vague form in the corner of the room, but it's like looking through shattered and fogged up glass, all fuzzy around the edges.

"You're up." Olly's voice sounds sunshiney again, so even if Emre can't really see him, he takes it as a good sign. He squints hard at the form that looms closer and closer until Olly put something cold and light in his hand. Emre puts his glasses on and the world comes into focus.

Olly is on the edge of the bed, hair still impossibly ruffled but his eyes incredibly bright and wide. He looks much better now, memories of last night nearly forgotten. He's probably still reeling, but he's stronger now. Bandaged up instead of bleeding and broken. Emre knows that nothing is fixed, that there are still issues in Olly's head that he'll have to solve on his own eventually. But at least he was able to take a step back, to get out of his head for a little bit, to be kinder to himself. In the end, that's all Emre wants for him. Because he's such a wonderful person who bad things happened to and that's not fair, and it's not his fault. Olly is an amazing person who tries very hard, but even the sun loses to the rain some days.  
   
Olly has a pair of black running shorts on, but nothing else. There's a deep red bruise on his left shoulder and the right side of his chest, and a crescent mark on his collarbone. Emre notes the visible signs of his worship.  They last longer than encouraging words or warm hugs. The imprints on Olly's skin will remain for a few days to remind him he is worthy, he is cared for. This fresh armor will keep the demons at bay, at least for a little while.

"It's rude to stare." Olly is looking at him with narrowed eyes, and Emre realizes he probably has that stupid sleepy grin his past girlfriends said he has. He only shrugs in reply. Emre sees Olly's eyes sweep over him and figures it's his turn to be assessed, so he looks away. He reaches up to crack his stiff neck only to find a slight bump under his ear. Olly must see it because his eyes go wide. Emre scrambles for his phone.

"FUUUUUCCCK." There it was, a big red bruise just under his earlobe. He maneuvers his phone carefully to see it via the screen. Olly doubles over in laughter and Emre turns to him in horror.

"I'm. So. Sorry." Olly manages to gasp out between fits of laughter. He doesn't sound sorry at all! Emre tosses his phone at him, which Olly catches easily. The strangeness of the situation pulls at Emre's mouth, and he finds himself irrationally laughing as well. Suddenly, the two of them were a mess of giggles and it was all too weird. 

They never acknowledge it the day after. No one is any the wiser, and they were no different each time. Well, that was before, before this goddamn hickey. 

The laughter eventually subsides, and Emre swallows the last of his chuckles with a deep breath. Olly scratches one eye. 

"You should get ready. We have a few interviews this morning. " He begins to stand up. "And i'll, uh, look for some concealer for that." He gestures to Emre's ear, which prompts a snort and some cussing. Olly rolls his eyes at him, and walks over to his suitcase to put a shirt on. Emre throws himself back on the duvet and shoves his head under the pillow. 

A pain erupts on his bare back along with a loud smack. Emre jolts up.

"Shit! That fucking hurt!" He half-yelled, half whined at Olly. 

"Dont be an ass. You're gonna make us late. I'm serious, Emre. If you're not down at breakfast in 20 minutes, I'll send Mikey up here." Olly threatens. By the time Emre thought of a partially witty retort, he was already out the door.

Yep, he's back. He's okay for now.


End file.
